by Fiona Barton
When they filed back into the sitting room, Doonan smiled. ‘All done? Sorry about the washing. Expect you’ll be off to see Glen Taylor now?’
‘Who?’ Sparkes asked.
‘Taylor. One of the other drivers. He did a drop in the area the same day. Didn’t you know?’
Sparkes stopped putting on his coat and moved closer to Doonan. ‘No. Mr Johnstone didn’t mention a second driver when he called in. Are you sure there were two of you?’
‘Yeah, I was going to do both jobs but I had a doctor’s appointment and had to get back to town by four thirty. Glen said he’d do the second drop. Maybe he didn’t put it on the log. You should ask him.’
‘We will, Mr Doonan.’
Sparkes signalled to Matthews to go and call Johnstone to confirm the new information.
As the sergeant closed the front door behind him, Sparkes looked hard at Doonan. ‘Is this other driver a friend of yours?’
Doonan sniffed. ‘Not really. Bit of a mystery, if I’m honest. Clever boy. Deep, I’d say.’
Sparkes wrote it down. ‘Deep, how?’
‘Acted all friendly but you never knew what he was thinking. The blokes would be talking in the canteen and he’d just be listening in. Secretive, I suppose.’
Matthews knocked on the window, startling them both, and Sparkes put his notebook away and said goodbye without shaking hands.
‘We’ll see you again, Mr Doonan.’
The driver excused himself from getting up to let him out.
‘Slam the door behind you and come back any time,’ he called after him.
The officers got into the stinking lift and looked at each other as the doors closed.
‘Mr Johnstone says there’s nothing in the log about Glen Taylor doing any jobs that afternoon,’ said Matthews. ‘He’s looking for the delivery receipt to see whose signature is on it. I’ve got Taylor’s address.’
‘Let’s go there now,’ Sparkes said, reaching for his keys. ‘And check if Doonan turned up for his doctor’s appointment.’
In the flat, Mike Doonan waited for an hour and then staggered to the coat hooks in the hall and fished out a padlock key from his jacket pocket. He shook two of his special painkillers from a white plastic container and swallowed them with a gulp of cold coffee. He stood while they kicked in and then shuffled out to remove the pictures and magazines from his locker in the neighbour’s garage.
‘Fucking police,’ he grumbled as he braced himself against the lift wall. He’d burn the photos later. He’d been stupid to keep them really, but they were all that was left of his little hobby. The computer stuff had come to an end months ago when his spine had started to collapse and he couldn’t get to his special internet café any more.
‘Too crippled for porn,’ he laughed to himself – his painkillers making him lightheaded and giddy. ‘That’s tragic.’
He opened the door of the grey metal cabinet and pulled the battered-looking blue folder off the top shelf. The corners of the photocopies had become dog-eared with use and the colours were beginning to fade. He’d bought them from another driver, a bloke who drove cabs down on the coast and sold his stuff from the boot of his car. Doonan knew his pictures off by heart. The faces, the poses, the domesticity of the backgrounds – living rooms, bedrooms, bathrooms.
He hoped the detectives were giving Glen Taylor a good going-over. Serve him right, jumped-up little prick.
The older one had looked interested when he said Taylor was ‘deep’. He smiled.
Chapter 13
Saturday, 7 April 2007
The Detective
SPARKES’ HEART WAS going like a steam hammer as he walked up the Taylors’ path, all senses heightened. He’d done this walk a hundred times but his reactions never seemed blunted by repetition.
The house was a semi, painted and well cared for, with double-glazed windows and clean net curtains.
Are you here, Bella? he repeated in his head as he raised a hand to knock on the door. Softly, softly, he reminded himself. Let’s not panic anyone.
And then, there he was. Glen Taylor.
He looks like the bloke next door, was Sparkes’ first thought. But then monsters rarely look the part. You hope you’ll be able to see the evil shining out of them – it would make police work a damned sight easier, he often said. But evil was a slippery substance, only glimpsed occasionally and all the more horrifying for that, he knew.
The detective made a quick visual sweep behind Taylor for any signs of a child, but the hall and stairs were spotless, nothing out of place.
‘Normal to the point of abnormal,’ he told Eileen later. ‘Looked like a show house.’ Eileen had taken offence, seeing the remark as a judgement on her own housekeeping skills, and hissed her discontent at him.
‘Bloody hell, Eileen, what’s the matter with you? No one is talking about you, about our house. I’m talking about a suspect. I thought you’d be interested.’ But the damage was done. Eileen retreated to the kitchen and some loud cleaning. Another quiet week, he thought and turned the telly up.
‘Mr Glen Taylor?’ Sparkes asked quietly and courteously.
‘Yes, that’s me,’ Taylor replied. ‘What can I do for you? Are you selling something?’
The officer stepped closer, Ian Matthews at his heels.
‘Mr Taylor, I’m Detective Inspector Bob Sparkes from the Hampshire Police Force. Can I come in?’
‘Police? What is this about?’ Taylor asked.
‘I would like to talk to you about the case of a missing child I’m investigating. It’s about the disappearance of Bella Elliott,’ he said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. The colour drained from Glen Taylor’s face and he stepped back as if recoiling from a punch.
Taylor’s wife came out of the kitchen and was wiping her hands on a tea towel when the words ‘Bella Elliott’ were spoken. A nice, decent-looking woman, Sparkes thought. She gasped and her hands flew up to her face. Strange how people react. That gesture, to cover your face, must be hardwired into people. Is it shame? Or an unwillingness to look at something? he wondered, waiting to be shown through to the sitting room.
Odd really, he thought. He hasn’t looked at his wife once the whole time. It’s as if she isn’t there. Poor woman, she looks like she’s going to collapse.
Taylor quickly pulled himself together and answered their questions.
‘We understand you were making a delivery in the area where Bella was taken, Mr Taylor.’
‘Well, I think so.’
‘Your friend, Mr Doonan, said you were.’
‘Doonan?’ Glen Taylor’s mouth tightened. ‘Not a friend of mine, but – hang on a minute. Yes, I think I was.’
‘Try to be sure, Mr Taylor. It was the day Bella Elliott was abducted,’ Sparkes insisted.
‘Right, yes. Of course. I think I had one drop early afternoon and then came home. About four, as I remember.’
‘Home at four, Mr Taylor? You made very good time. Are you sure it was four?’
Taylor nodded, forehead creased as if miming thinking hard. ‘Yes, definitely four. Jean will bear me out.’
Jean Taylor said nothing. It was as if she hadn’t heard and Sparkes had to repeat the question before she made eye contact with him and nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said, as if on automatic pilot.
Sparkes turned back to Glen Taylor. ‘The thing is, Mr Taylor, your van matches the description of a vehicle that was noticed by a neighbour just before Bella vanished. You probably read about it – it was in all the papers – and we’re checking all blue vans.’
‘I thought you were looking for a man with a ponytail. I’ve got short hair, and anyway, I wasn’t in Southampton. It was Winchester,’ Taylor said.
‘Yes, but are you sure you didn’t take a little drive after the delivery?’
Taylor laughed off the suggestion.
‘I don’t do any more driving than I have to – not my idea of relaxation. Look, this is all a terrible mistake.’
Sparkes nodded to himself thoughtfully. ‘I’m sure you understand how serious this matter is, Mr Taylor, and won’t mind if we have a look around.’
An immediate search of the house began with the officers moving quickly through the rooms, calling Bella’s name and looking in cupboards, under beds, behind sofas. There was nothing.
But there was something about the way Taylor had told his story. Something rehearsed about it. Sparkes decided to take him in for further questioning, to go over the details once more. He owed it to Bella.
Jean Taylor was left weeping on the stairs, while the officers finished their work.
Chapter 14
Thursday, 10 June 2010
The Widow
THEY LET ME REST for a bit and then we have dinner by the big windows in Kate’s room, overlooking the gardens. The waiter wheels in a table with a white tablecloth and a vase of flowers in the middle. The plates have those fancy silver domes on them. Kate and Mick have ordered starters, mains and puds and they’re stacked on a shelf under the table.
‘Let’s push the boat out,’ Kate says.
‘Yeah,’ Mick says. ‘We deserve it.’
Kate tells him to shut up but I can see they’re really pleased with themselves. They’ve won the big prize – an interview with the widow.
I have chicken and play with it for a bit. Not hungry for it or their celebrations. They pile into the wine and order a second bottle, but I make sure I don’t drink more than a glass. Must stay in control.
When I feel tired, I pretend to cry and say I need some time alone. Kate and Mick exchange a look. Obviously this isn’t going to plan. But I stand and say, ‘Good night. See you in the morning.’
They scrape their chairs back and stumble to their feet. Kate walks me to my door and makes sure I’m safely inside.
‘Don’t answer the phone,’ she tells me. ‘If I need to talk to you, I’ll knock on the door.’
I nod.
It’s boiling hot in my room so I lie on the enormous bed with the windows open to let out the heat of the radiators. Today is playing over and over in my head on a loop and I feel dizzy and out of control, like I’m a bit drunk.
I sit up, to stop the room spinning, and see myself reflected in the window.
It looks like someone else. Some other woman who’s let herself be taken away by strangers. Strangers who, until today, were probably banging on my door and writing lies about me. I rub my face and so does the woman in the window. Because it is me.
I stare back at myself.
I can’t believe I’m here.
I can’t believe I let myself agree to come. After everything the press have done to us. After all the warnings Glen gave.
I want to tell him that I don’t actually remember agreeing, but he’d say I must have done or I wouldn’t have got into the van with them.
Well, he’s not here any more to say anything. I’m on my own now.
Then I hear Kate and Mick talking on the balcony next door.
‘Poor thing,’ Kate says. ‘She must be exhausted. We’ll do it in the morning.’
Whatever ‘it’ is. The interview, I suppose.
I feel dizzy again. Sick inside, because I know what is coming next. There’ll be no more massages and treats tomorrow. No more chat about what colour the kitchen units are. She will want to know about Glen. And Bella.
I go into the bathroom and throw up the chicken I’ve just eaten. I sit on the floor and think about the first interview I gave – the one to the police, while Glen was in custody. It was Easter when they came. We’d planned to walk up to Greenwich Park the next day to see the Easter egg hunt. We went every year – that and Bonfire Night were my favourite times of the year. Funny the things you remember. I loved it. All those excited little faces looking for eggs or under their woolly hats, writing their names with sparklers. I’d stand close to them, pretend they were mine for a moment.
Instead, that Easter Sunday, I sat on my sofa while two police officers went through my things and Bob Sparkes questioned me. He wanted to know if Glen and I had a normal sex life. He called it something else, but that’s what he meant.
I didn’t know what to say. It was so horrible being asked that by a stranger. He was looking at me and thinking about my sex life and I couldn’t stop him.
‘Of course,’ I said. I didn’t know what he meant or why he was asking me that.
They wouldn’t answer my questions, just kept asking theirs. Questions about the day Bella disappeared. Why was I at home at four, instead of at work? What time did Glen come in the door? How did I know it was four o’clock? What else happened that day? Checking everything and going over the same things again and again. They wanted me to make a mistake, but I didn’t. I stuck to the story. I didn’t want to make any trouble for Glen.
And I knew he’d never do anything like that. My Glen.
‘Do you ever use the computer we took away from your husband’s study, Mrs Taylor?’ Inspector Sparkes suddenly asked.
They’d taken it the day before, after they searched upstairs.
‘No,’ I said. It came out as a squeak. My throat betraying me and my fear.
They’d taken me up there the day before and one of them sat down at the keyboard to try and start it. The screen lit up but then nothing happened and they asked me for the password. I told them I didn’t even know there was a password. We tried my name and birthdays and Arsenal, Glen’s team, but in the end they unplugged it and took it away to crack it open.
From the window, I’d watched them leave. I knew they’d find something, but I didn’t know what. I tried not to imagine. In the end, I couldn’t have imagined what they found. DI Sparkes told me when he came back the next day to ask more questions. Told me there were pictures. Terrible pictures of children on there. I told him Glen couldn’t have put them there.
I think it must’ve been the police who let Glen’s name out of the bag because the morning after he finally got home from the police station the press came knocking.
He’d looked so tired and dirty when he walked through the door the night before and I’d made toast and pulled my chair close to his so I could put my arms round him.
‘It was awful, Jeanie. They wouldn’t listen to me. Kept going on and on at me.’
I started crying. I couldn’t help myself. He sounded so broken by it.
‘Oh love, don’t cry. It will be all right,’ he said, wiping my tears with his thumb. ‘We both know I wouldn’t harm a hair on a child’s head.’
I knew it was true, but I felt so relieved hearing him say it out loud that I hugged him again and got butter on my sleeve.
‘I know you wouldn’t. And I didn’t let you down about coming home late, Glen,’ I said. ‘I told the police you were home by four.’ And he looked at me sideways.
He’d asked me to tell the lie. We were sitting having our tea the night after the news came out that the police were looking for the driver of a blue van. I said maybe he ought to ring in and say he’d been in a blue van in Hampshire on the day she went missing so they could rule him out.
Glen looked at me for a long time. ‘It would just be inviting trouble, Jeanie.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look, I did a little private job while I was out – a delivery I took on for a friend to make a bit of extra money – and if the boss finds out, he’ll sack me.’
‘But what if the boss reports that you were in the area in a blue van?’
‘He won’t,’ Glen said. ‘He’s not keen on the police. But if he does, we’ll just say I was home by four. Then everything will be all right. OK, love?’
I nodded. And anyway, he did ring me at about four to say he was on his way. Said his mobile was on the blink and he was ringing from a garage phone.
It was practically the same thing, wasn’t it?
‘Thanks, love,’ he said. ‘It’s not a lie really – I was on my way – but we don’t want the boss to know I was doing that extra work on the si
de. We don’t need any complications or me losing my job. Do we?’
‘No, course not.’
I put some more bread in the toaster, breathing in the comforting smell.
‘Where did you go for your extra drop?’ I said. Just asking.
‘Over near Brighton,’ he said. And we sat in silence for a while.
The next morning, the first reporter knocked on the door – a young bloke from the local paper. Nice lad, he looked. Full of apologies.
‘So sorry to disturb you, Mrs Taylor, but please may I speak to your husband?’
Glen came out of the living room just as I was asking the lad who he was. When he said he was a reporter, Glen turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. I stood there, not sure what to do. Frightened that whatever I said, it would come out wrong. In the end, Glen shouted through, ‘There’s nothing to say. Goodbye,’ and I closed the door on him.
We got better at dealing with the press after that. We didn’t answer the door. We sat quietly in the kitchen until we heard the footsteps going away. And we thought that was the end of it. Course it wasn’t. They went next door, and across the road, to the paper shop and the pub. Door-knocking for bits of information.
I don’t think Lisa next door said anything to the reporters at the beginning. The other neighbours didn’t know much, but that didn’t stop them. They loved the whole thing and two days after he was released, there we were in the papers.
‘HAVE POLICE FINALLY MADE A BREAKTHROUGH IN BELLA CASE?’ one headline read. In another one, there was a blurry picture of Glen from when he played for the pub football team, and a load of lies.
We sat and looked at the front pages together. Glen looked shell-shocked and I took his hand to reassure him.
In the papers, lots of it was wrong. His age, his job, even the spelling of his name,
Glen smiled at me weakly. ‘That’s good, Jeanie,’ he said. ‘Maybe people won’t recognize me.’ But of course they did.
